ights had changed: The double-ended candles had
disappeared. Filling the Land once more with a golden glow were
countless tapers--electric, gas, and kerosene. She was back where she
had started, threading the trees among which she had danced with joy.

But she was far from dancing now!

"Let's not give up hope," said a voice--the Doctor's. He was holding up
the glass before his face to watch the bubbles creaming upon its
surface. "There may be a sudden turn for the better."

Before she could draw another breath--here was the turn! a sharp one.
And she, felt a keen wind in her eyes,--blown in gusts, as if by the
wings of giant butterflies. The cloud that held the wind lay just
ahead--a pinky mass that stretched from sky to earth.

The Bird turned his dark eyes upon Gwendolyn from where he sat, high and
safe, on the Doctor's shoulder. "I think her little journey's almost
done," he said. There was a rich canary note in his voice.

"Oo! goody!" she cried.

"You mean you have a solution?" asked the little old gentleman.

"A solution?" called back the Piper. "Well--?"

A moment's perfect stillness. Then, "It's simple," said the Bird. (Now
his voice was strangely like the Doctor's.) "I suppose you might call it
a salt solution."

His last three words began to run through Gwendolyn's mind--"A salt
solution! A salt solution! A salt solution!"--as regularly as the pulse
that throbbed in her throat.

"Yes,"--the Doctor's voice now, breathless, low, tremulous with
anxiety. "If we want to save her--"

"Am I _her?_" interrupted Gwendolyn. (And again somebody sobbed!)

"--_It must be done!_"

"There isn't anything to cry about," declared Gwendolyn, stoutly. She
felt hopeful, even buoyant.

It was all novel and interesting. The Doctor began by making grabs at
the lump of salt on the Bird's tail. The lump loosened suddenly. He
caught it between his palms, after which he began to roll it--precisely
as he had rolled the dough at the Pillery. And as the salt worked into a
more perfect ball, it slowly browned!

Gwendolyn clapped her hands. "My father won't know the difference," she
cried.

"You get my idea exactly," answered the Bird.

The Doctor uncovered the pill-basket, selected a fine, round, toasted
example of his own baking, and presented it to the Man-Who-Makes-Faces;
presented a second to Gwendolyn; thence went from one to another of the
little company, whereat everyone fell to eating.

At once Gwendolyn's fat